there must be a poem

in there, she’d said –

and wouldn’t it begin – as always – with the motion?
theirs and ours –
with our uncertainty
about the place of angels
in this world.
or with our unease – maybe –
and never settled understanding
of whether it is benevolence we’re after
or awe
or whether they are here to protect us
or to watch us
or maybe just to serve as a singlechord reminder of the order of these things:
them, out there
us, in here
or the reverse of all that, maybe –
that that fullwingedflutter underneath my skin
that one that might be fear –
is in fact an understanding
that something larger still presides
and broods
with a rolling shouldered grace
that feels like love
or could be just a reminder
that i am the one out here who’s wandering –
that i am the one who’s passing through.